


Hold My Soul

by connyhascontrol



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race (US) RPF
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Lesbian AU, afterlife logistics, and also life, coping with your own death, it's just that nobody in it happens to be alive, this is not primarily a sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connyhascontrol/pseuds/connyhascontrol
Summary: As a teenager, like any good goth with not exactly immaculate mental health, Katya had spent a lot of time thinking about death. She decided early on she didn’t believe in the hooded skeleton with the scythe. Her Catholic upbringing left her with an inescapable fear of and fascination with hell, first leaving her terrified that she would end up there, and later pushing her to make sure she would. If it was real. Which it probably wasn’t.None of her musings had included a six foot tall woman dressed head to toe in Barbie pink, who keeps pushing her blonde hair behind her ears with an increasingly concerned expression on her face.(In which Katya dies. It's not so bad; Death is her type.)
Relationships: Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova
Comments: 86
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A spooky offering for the season! This was originally supposed to be a one-shot so the rest will be posted when the spooky season is over, but in our hearts it's always Halloween, right?? Am I doing something controversial yet brave by writing a fic about death with the world being what it is? Maybe. But this is overall a fairly light-hearted approach. Be advised though that this fic does deal with death and loss, so if that's something that's hard for you, you might want to skip this one. 
> 
> Thanks to the fuck rhombus for inspiring this and supporting me, especially to [beanierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanierose/pseuds/beanierose) for proofreading and to [mattepinkallshades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattepinkallshades/pseuds/mattepinkallshades) for always holding my hand.
> 
> Here's a slightly [ooky-spooky but also sweet playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2gbaiFz96q5WB3U2t3MAOQ?si=sFj9TwEqSbyk5QWp3hiVBw) to go along with this fic. I will post the other chapters the next two Saturdays. Enjoy and stay safe!

_I hold my soul  
_ _from the lands unknown  
_ _so I can play the strings of your death._  
 _(Dead Man’s Bones - Lose Your Soul)_  
  


One second Katya is walking and the next she’s not. There’s a brief moment of pain blooming bright behind her eyes, and when she opens them, the face of a blonde she doesn’t know is peering down at her. The woman reaches one hand out to help her up from where she’s fallen. Katya takes it, and the woman pulls her up like she doesn’t weigh anything. She’s tall and broad, but she doesn’t look _that_ strong. 

“I’m okay,” Katya quickly assures her, and maybe herself. 

“Hm.” The woman gives her a small smile. “That’s debatable.” She nods towards the ground, and Katya’s eyes follow her line of sight.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Katya is lying on the ground. In the street, to be precise, in front of a car, and with a puddle of blood growing around her head like a halo. Her eyes are staring up into the sky, lifeless. There is no grimace on her face, no evidence of shock or pain. She doesn’t look like Katya anymore. 

Katya looks down at herself, the body she’s in right now. She’s not translucent, which she thinks is a bit of a let-down. She _feels_ solid, but when she crouches down to touch her own face, she reaches right through the cheek of the Katya in the street. She feels nothing, but still recoils and wipes her hand on her pants to clean it off.

“Am I a ghost?” Katya asks the woman when she’s pushed herself up again. Her movements are smoother, easier. No joints strained from carrying her weight to make it difficult.

“No, you’re a soul.” The woman isn’t looking at Katya. She produces an hourglass from somewhere in her pink Elle Woods business suit. All the sand is in the bottom half. “Can you see a light?” she then asks Katya.

Katya looks around for the first time since she died Everything looks slightly blurry. She spots who she thinks must be the driver of the car, a young man with horror on his face, kneeling next to her body. His hands are shaking; he keeps almost grabbing her shoulders, never actually doing it. His lips are moving, but she can’t hear what he says. A crowd has gathered around the scene of the accident. A woman is rapidly talking into her phone, probably calling an ambulance. Good luck with that. Katya watches all of it with detached composure.

“A light?” comes the slightly impatient voice of the woman.

“Uhhh…” Katya turns, searching her surroundings. “You mean the street light?”

“No, no, a bright white light.”

“Oh, a _don’t go into the light_ light,” Katya croaks in an old man voice, and the woman frowns at her. “No, I don’t.”

The frown becomes deeper. She consults the hourglass again.

“But you _are_ Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova, right?”

“Yup, that’s me. Was me. Was her?” She points her thumb at the body on the ground. It’s confusing, and Blondie is no help whatsoever. This time, Katya can see how a thick book appears out of thin air in the woman’s hands, and she starts flipping through the pages. She stops, and one long nail taps the spot she must have been looking for.

“Yes, car accident, right place, right time; that’s all correct,” she mutters to herself.

“Can _you_ see a light?” Katya asks carefully. She’s not sure she’s allowed to, but it’s her death. She should at least get to ask questions.

The woman audibly snaps the book shut, and it disappears again. “No, it’s not my light. It’s only for you.” For a moment they just look at each other.

“So... what happens from here on out?” Katya breaks the silence.

“I don’t know, this has never happened before. I’m just supposed to guide you to the light.”

To be fair, Katya has just died, but she still feels stupid that she only then realizes who she’s talking to.

“You’re Death.”

The woman makes a vague hand gesture.

“Not really. I’m not responsible for you dying. I just deal with the paperwork afterwards, so I’m more like death’s administrator.” She looks at Katya’s confused face and adds, “Sure. For simplicity’s sake, I’m Death.”

As a teenager, like any good goth with not exactly immaculate mental health, Katya had spent a lot of time thinking about death. She decided early on she didn’t believe in the hooded skeleton with the scythe. Her Catholic upbringing left her with an inescapable fear of and fascination with hell, first leaving her terrified that she would end up there, and later pushing her to make sure she would. If it was real. Which it probably wasn’t.

None of her musings had included a six foot tall woman dressed head to toe in Barbie pink, who keeps pushing her blonde hair behind her ears with an increasingly concerned expression on her face.

Katya feels like she’s twelve and her dad forgot it was his turn to pick her up from softball practice, leaving her with a coach who needs to get home and doesn’t have time for this kind of nonsense. 

“Is there like… a place you could drop me off, maybe?”

Death looks at her with wide eyes for a moment.

"Like what? A shelter for lost souls? No, there's no _place I could drop you off_. This has never happened before; there's no plan in place to deal with it." 

Her voice has taken on a shrill edge, and Katya feels herself returned to her days as a cashier, to the time a woman tried to return a half-eaten sandwich, despite Katya explaining over and over that this was a Michael's. The handbook simply doesn't cover some things.

“Right,” Death says with resignation, “I guess you’re coming with me.”

She turns and walks away from the scene of the accident. Katya looks back down at the broken body that’s not her anymore and then back up at Death, who is quickly moving further away. Her heels should make a noise, but there’s nothing. Once more, Katya squats down and stretches out her hand towards what used to be her face, but then pulls it back before she has to confront the reality of not being able to touch it anymore. 

“Are you coming?” Death calls impatiently. She’s stopped and turned back around, waiting for Katya with her fingers tapping out a rhythm in rapid staccato against her thigh. Katya stands, and for a moment she feels like she should say something, some kind of goodbye. Nothing comes to her. Of course not; she’s still right here. Her head jerks around to Death and she hurries towards her, moving effortlessly but still feeling like she’s treading water. She can see her boots hit the ground but she doesn’t feel it.

Death keeps going before Katya has reached her, and she speeds up to get to her side.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.” 

Katya isn’t sure what she expected, but certainly not that. So she just nods and keeps walking. The familiar streets around her start to fade, not getting further away, but becoming strangely translucent, like they’re made out of fog. It disperses more and more until there’s nothing left, and before Katya can make up her mind if what’s left of the universe is pure black or pure white, they’re standing in front of a house. 

It’s an unremarkable suburban two-story family home with white siding and a blueish-gray roof. The front yard is small with a stone path to the steps leading up to the porch, flower beds on either side. They’re in full bloom, and even from the other side of the little picket gate Katya can hear the humming of bees. 

Death gives a pensive _hm_ , looking up at the windows on the second floor. Then she bends down a little to open the gate, and she tells Katya to close it behind her as she walks up the path. 

As soon as Katya steps through, she can feel the ground beneath her feet again, and it’s more soothing than she expected. Death doesn’t unlock the door, just pushes it open and steps in, leaving Katya to follow her.

The inside is just as ordinary as the outside. They’re standing in a narrow but bright hallway. Paintings of landscapes decorate walls painted a soft cream color. There’s a coat rack by the door and a full-length mirror on the wall, and Katya has the urge to take off her boots. 

But Death has left her heels on, and she’s walking further into the house.

“Huh,” Katya hears before she crosses the threshold into a cozy living room. There’s a large fireplace with a soft-looking blue couch flanked by matching arm chairs in front of it. Death has walked to the other end of the room, and her hand rests on the closed lid of a grand piano. 

“This is new,” she mutters softly, and then turns, strides past Katya back into the hallway. She’s already halfway up the stairs when Katya reaches the bottom step. Upstairs is another quaint, unremarkable hallway, and Katya tries to follow Death through an open door, but she’s already turning around again, closing the door in front of Katya’s face, brushing past her. 

Katya trots after her, through the next door in the hall and into a bathroom. Like the rest of the house, it’s bright, friendly, and absolutely run-of-the-mill with its toilet, sink, bathtub and light wood cabinets. There are two towels on the rack; one pink and one taupe with matching decorative borders. 

Death storms out again and pushes open the last door in the hallway with enough force for it to hit the opposite wall and bounce back, only narrowly avoiding hitting her in the face. This time, Katya waits outside, only carefully peering past her body. 

“I guess this is yours,” Death says through barely restrained anger, and steps aside to let Katya in. 

For one stupid moment, Katya thinks it’s going to be a cell of some kind. Somewhere to keep her contained, her padded room in her own personal loony bin. But then she spots the heavy drapes pulled to the side to let in the sun -- Is it even the sun? Does the sun exist here? -- that paints bright rectangles on the plush rug in front of a queen-sized bed. 

It’s a bedroom; a nice one, too. It matches the rest of the house with the light wood furniture, but here the fabrics are darker, reddish earth tones making it look cozy. There’s a large bookshelf tucked into one corner and a plush loveseat fits underneath the window. Katya steps up to it, resting her hand on the windowsill. It looks out over a neat garden with a fishpond in one corner. Beyond it is nothing, and the absence of the world makes Katya feel nauseous, so she turns around, the unease in her stomach ebbing away. 

Death is watching her. Her anger seems to have dissipated again, as quickly as it appeared. 

“This is nice, thank you,” Katya breaks the silence, and the corners of Death’s mouth twitch for a moment.

“Don’t thank me, I didn’t do this.” She steps up to the closet, her heels clacking on the hardwood floor, and pulls the door open. All the hangers are full with clothes in dark colors. She picks one at random, holds it up in front of her. It’s a black dress with what Katya first thinks are white flowers all over it, but then she realizes they’re eyes. It’s also much too small for her.

“Not exactly my style, wouldn’t you say?” Death throws it towards Katya, who catches it in one hand, the wooden hanger smacking her in the arm. It doesn’t hurt. Holding it up to her own body, it looks like it would fit her. 

“When I left for work, this house had no second floor,” Death explains. “Something decided I needed space for you.”

“Oh.” Katya bites down on her lip for a moment, thinking. Then she asks, “What does that mean?”

Death sighs. “I’m not sure, but I think it means you’re going to be around for a while.”

“Right.” Katya nods, as if she understands anything that’s happening. 

Then nobody speaks. Death is standing with her shoulders slumped, making her look smaller than she is. Katya catches the worry in her eyes, and for the first time she really takes in her face. Her features are large, more striking than pretty, but it all fits together well. She’s wearing a considerable amount of makeup, Katya notices, and in a way that seems both outdated and way ahead of its time. 

“So, is that a thing?” She vaguely gestures to Death’s face and then with a flurry of her wrist down and back up her whole appearance. “That you look appealing to the person who just died, like some kinda Venus flytrap?”

Death gives her a blank stare. “What? I-- this is what I _look_ like.”

“Oh.” Katya feels heat rising in her cheeks. So it’s a coincidence that Death is exactly her type. Death doesn’t seem to catch on to the implication of what Katya just said, and she hopes it stays that way. She’s gotta tell Alaska that the first thing she did was more or less accidentally hit on Death, she’ll have a field day with this.

Then Katya remembers that she can’t, and her whole body goes stiff with the realization. She learns that her heart might not beat anymore, but it can still hurt. Katya reaches out until her fingertips brush against the armrest of the loveseat, and she uses the point of contact to guide herself down to sit. 

“What’s wrong?”

Katya laughs, a horrible, hollow sound that isn't like her. “I’m dead. I’m _really_ dead.”

“Yes, we’ve established that,” Death sighs, and anger rises bitter in Katya’s throat.

“Could you maybe have a little sympathy?” she snaps, and Death’s eyes go wide. “I was doing things, you know? I had a job. It was a shitty job, but really I was on my phone most of the time anyway, so it wasn’t so bad. I had friends there, I had--” 

The face of her mother appears at the forefront of her mind, sad and tired. She hates wearing black. This time she’ll have to. 

Katya closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, tries hard to not imagine her dad and the rest of her family at the funeral too.

“I just lost everyone I love.”

Death flexes her hand. Reaching out but not. "Well, technically _they_ lost--" Katya gives her a sharp look, and her mouth snaps shut. "Sorry," she adds softly. "I hadn't thought about it that way."

Silence stretches between them thick and sticky like resin.

"I will give you some space," Death murmurs after a while. "I'll be in my office. If I can find it." She closes the door with a gentleness you'd close it on a sleeping child.

It makes Katya feel worse. The last thing she needs right now is to be alone. Spending time with an unsympathetic afterlife bureaucrat is definitely not the move right now either. She’s surprised that her not-really-corporeal body can produce tears, and she lets them come. Katya wiggles out of her boots and pulls her feet up, folding herself as small as she can in the corner of the loveseat, one of the plush throw pillows clutched to her chest like a melodramatic teenage girl. 

She just died; she’s earned herself some drama.

Katya cries until she feels silly, and then her eyes simply stop. She pulls her sweater up over her face so she can wipe her cheeks with it, and when she lowers it, she catches sight of herself in the mirror on the closet door. Her face is smooth and pale, without any of the red blotches and puffy eyes she had expected. Apparently her current form is only doing an approximation of bodily functions, and it makes Katya hopeful that she’ll never have another period. 

She’s not hungry, but she’s in the mood for something sweet. There is a bathroom, so chances are she’ll find a kitchen somewhere downstairs, maybe even some chocolate. She doesn’t bother putting her shoes back on. On sock feet she quietly sneaks out of her room and down the stairs. One of the three doors there leads to the living room she’s already seen. The other two are probably the office Death mentioned and the kitchen. Katya decides to try the door at the end of the hallway, at the back of the house.

It opens up into a spacious country style kitchen, complete with what seem to be top-of-the-line appliances, a large wooden dining table, and Death with her stocking feet up on one of the chairs. She freezes when Katya walks in, and chokes down whatever she’s eating.

“Sorry,” Katya says, and immediately feels stupid. She didn’t do anything wrong.

“You’re fine,” Death quickly assures her, and pulls her feet off the chair, sitting up straight. She’s taken off her pink jacket, revealing a nightmare of a cream-colored blouse with ruffles around the neckline that Katya somehow missed before. “Um, do you… need anything?” she then asks haltingly.

"I was just looking for chocolate." Katya's voice goes up at the end in a question she didn't mean to ask. She pulls the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands.

"Oh!" Death leans back in her chair until she is precariously balancing on two legs and reaches behind herself, pulling open a drawer and rummaging around in it, the other gripping the edge of the table so she doesn’t fall over. She makes a small, pleased noise and twists around, smacking a bar of chocolate down on the table loud enough that it makes Katya jump. “This is for you, then. I don’t really like chocolate.”

While Katya is internally debating whether it would be rude to take the chocolate and go back to her room, Death adds, “Please! Make yourself at home,” and with one foot she pushes the chair across from her away from the table. As Katya steps closer, she spots a bag of sour gummy worms that a vase of flowers in the middle of the table had hidden from her. Those are apparently Death’s preferred snack. It takes a considerable amount of restraint to not say anything, and Katya focuses more than necessary on ripping open the wrapper of what seems to be _her_ chocolate. She breaks off a piece, but then her hand stops on its way to her mouth.

“Wait, can I actually eat? _Should_ I? I mean, my body isn’t really functioning, is it?”

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Death assures her through a mouthful of gummy worm. “You don’t _have_ to eat, but you can. Same with sleeping.” She chews for a moment and then adds, “At least that’s how it is for me.”

“Right. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m already dead,” Katya mutters, and she catches Death’s mouth twitching into a tiny smile as she pops the chocolate into her own mouth. Then she moans. “Jesus Christ, I don’t care if this is bad for me. It’s so fucking good.” Death stares at her with wide eyes. “I’m serious! This is the best chocolate I’ve ever had, like the fancy artisanal shit I only ever bought for my grandparents for Christmas and never ate myself."

"Sure." Death pulls another gummy worm from the bag, but then pauses before eating it and lets her hand sink. "I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier."

Katya raises her brows. " _We_ did?"

Death rolls her eyes, but then still says, "I'm sorry. I don't spend a lot of time with people. And this has never happened before! I don't know what to do."

Katya nods slowly. “That makes two of us.” Then she eats another piece of chocolate and Death finally pops that gummy worm into her mouth. Katya can hear herself chew as she tries to come up with something to say. She doesn’t usually struggle breaking the ice with strangers. This is different.

“You can call me Katya, by the way,” she finally offers into the silence, and then follows it up with “What’s your name?”

Death looks at her with a frown. 

“My name?”

“Yeah, I gotta call you something, right?”

“Sure. I’m thinking.” Death blinks rapidly a few times. “Trixie?” she settles on with uncertainty. “Yes, that feels right. Trixie.”

Katya breathes a small laugh. It’s not the name Katya thought Death would pick for herself, but it fits.

*

To Katya’s surprise, Trixie cooks dinner for them; a massive mushroom and tuna casserole that looks like something Katya’s grandma used to make at family gatherings when she was little. It’s rich and delicious, and Katya is sure if she had a stomach it would sit there heavily, leaving her in a food coma for the rest of the day.

Over the back of the chair next to Trixie lies the apron Katya saw her wear just for a minute before they sat down to eat. The image has thoroughly destroyed any apprehension Katya felt around her. Trixie had _hummed_ as she pulled the dish out of the oven, her hands in pink mitts. Her earlier foul mood apparently vanished as she was cooking. 

When Katya was a teenager, her mom gave her an old etiquette book for women that she found in the attic. Trixie seems to have sprung straight from its pages, and Katya wonders if this vintage image is a choice or if Death simply doesn’t keep up with human trends. 

After Katya insists on clearing the table, quickly slotting their plates into the dishwasher, Trixie brings out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. It’s smooth like velvet on Katya’s tongue and goes to her head in no time. 

“How does that even work? How can I get drunk when I have no body?”

Trixie smiles into her glass. “Because you expect to get drunk.” Her own words are soft, flowing into each other.

It’s gotten dark outside the windows without Katya noticing, and the light coming from the ceiling fixture is warm and orange, making her feel like she should be tired. She's hypnotized by the movement of it in her wine when she gently swirls it around, the delicate stem warming up in her fingers. Trixie pulls her out of her trance.

"I don't know what to do," she admits quietly. "About you. This is wrong, and I don't know how to make it right."

Katya thinks for a moment. "Maybe you're not supposed to."

"How do you mean?" 

"Maybe this is exactly where I'm supposed to be. The house seems to think so." Katya gestures to the ceiling, the second floor that according to Trixie didn't exist before and appeared to make space for Katya. Trixie only hums and leans back in her chair. 

“Do you have any ideas what to do?”

“Uhhh.” Katya hadn’t expected her to ask. Until now, Trixie hadn’t seemed like she trusted Katya with this situation. Of course not, _she_ was the expert. It makes Katya want to impress her. “Do you have, I dunno, records of… your work? We could look at those and maybe figure out what was different this time.”

Trixie sighs. “I’m telling you right now that nothing was different, but I don’t have a better idea.” She doesn’t sound tipsy anymore, and her movements are precise as she stands up. She starts walking towards the door, and Katya hurries to follow her. 

Trixie leads her through the only door in the hallway Katya hasn’t gone through before. They stand in an unassuming office; the only thing that feels off to her is that there’s no computer on the desk. A notebook and a pen are sitting on the surface and that’s it. Other than that, the room contains floor to ceiling bookshelves, the rows labeled alphabetically. 

The strange part is that Katya can’t focus on the opposite wall. When she turns away, it’s clearly there in the corner of her eye, but once she tries to walk towards it or even just look at it, the room seems to stretch out, the rows of shelves multiplying endlessly. 

Trixie is unperturbed by this and pulls out the first book on the _A_ shelf, opening it and showing Katya the first page. 

It’s a table, filled out in neat handwriting, with the heads labeled _Name_ , _Date of Birth_ , _Date of Death, Location_ and _Cause of Death_. 

“That’s-- that’s it?” Katya asks and flips to the next page. It’s just that same table, filled out from top to bottom. 

Trixie looks at her with a blank face. “I don’t know what you expected. I don’t write biographies for every person who dies.”

“No, no, this is… a start,” Katya is quick to pedal back.

Trixie sniffs and slams the book shut. “Be grateful there’s this at all. Before I started documenting these there was nothing.”

“No, of course, thank you, this is great. I just didn’t think about how many people have died. Like, in the history of humankind.” Katya gives Trixie a sheepish smile, and Trixie almost snorts. Then she pushes the book into Katya’s hands.

“Go nuts. I’m tired, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Katya doesn’t say that she can’t be tired, they have no material bodies. There’s a different kind of tiredness that’s not physical, and Trixie exudes it. So Katya just watches as she gently closes the office door behind her, and then listens to her steps ascending the stairs. 

With the book, Katya sits down at the desk and starts going through the names, not sure what she’s looking for. She sees entire families, grandmothers, mothers and daughters all with the same name, living out entire lives crammed into a few lines on the page. The worst are the ones with their dates of birth and death close together, and she takes a moment to think of each of those children who never got to grow up. It’s comforting to know that for them there was something waiting on the other side. Katya doesn’t know what exactly, but she can believe that they’re in a good place, more now than when she was alive.

Katya makes it through the whole book and she’s still only on _Ackland_. This is not going to be something she’ll finish any time soon. It doesn’t hit her as hard as she had expected. She’s not exactly in a hurry to move on. Sure, Trixie is a little waspish, but considering Katya died earlier, her day hasn’t turned out all that bad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It would be exhausting to meet every person at their level,” she tells Katya as they walk away, to wherever the next person is about to die._
> 
> _“Right, but like, I’m still gonna be kind to nice people and tell assholes to fuck off.”_
> 
> _Trixie smiles. "That's very noble of you."_
> 
> _Katya can't tell if she's being sarcastic or not._
> 
> _"No, it's just being human."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god it has been A Week. Here's a new chapter to celebrate the good news maybe? Thanks for the comments and kudos on the first chapter, they really mean the world to me. A big thank you to [beanierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanierose/pseuds/beanierose) for betaing, and [mattepinkallshades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattepinkallshades/pseuds/mattepinkallshades) for everything, always.

Katya awakes well rested in a way that’s only possible when you can’t get tired in the first place. Bright light is falling in through the windows, and she’s struck by how beautiful this place is. In life, she never got past the stage of IKEA furniture and mismatched second-hand pieces. This house is the place of someone who’s got their shit together. 

Katya considers taking a shower for a moment, but then remembers that she can’t sweat. She changes from the soft shorts and top she found in her closet into the dress Trixie had picked up yesterday. It fits her like a glove, and she does a little twirl in front of the mirror, surprisingly delighted with what the universe has provided her with.

Her clothes from yesterday are still in a pile on the loveseat. She had almost expected them to just vanish, but apparently she’ll have to ask Trixie about the laundry situation. She giggles briefly at the absurdity of the situation.

When she comes downstairs, the door to the office is open and Trixie is standing at the desk, her back turned towards Katya. She raises her hand and raps against the doorframe with one knuckle, and Trixie shrieks before she whips around.

Katya doesn’t laugh, but it’s a close call. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Trixie’s eyes go down to their regular size, but she keeps one hand on her chest. 

“It’s alright,” she dismisses Katya’s apology and turns around again, doing something Katya can’t see. “Did you find anything in the records?”

Katya shakes her head. “No, but I didn’t get very far yet.”

“I have to get to work, but you can stay here and keep looking if you want?” As she suggests it, Trixie turns around, and Katya spots several hourglasses on the desk.

“Oh, so… that’s today, huh?” She jerks her chin towards the table. Trixie just nods. It can’t be more than twenty hourglasses and Katya frowns. “That seems so-- I’m not saying I want more people to die, but those are pretty few for a whole day.”

Trixie smiles a little. She gently touches one of the hourglasses, and it disappears, reminding Katya of the one Trixie had conjured out of thin air when she came to pick her up.

“It doesn’t work like that.  _ Today  _ isn’t real. They die and I’m there, time doesn’t matter.”

“Huh. That makes sense, I guess.” Space isn’t real, Katya’s body isn’t, why should time be? “How do you pick them?” she asks then.

“I don’t. They appear on my desk, and I go and take care of everything.” Trixie keeps touching them one after the other and making them disappear, and Katya watches nearly detached. 

She wonders if she’s in shock. There’s been so much to process and her own calm worries her a little. She has no idea how much of all this she is truly physically experiencing and how much of it she simply thinks she should be feeling. Maybe that’s true about feelings for everyone, always. 

“There’s coffee and breakfast in the kitchen if you want,” Trixie interrupts her thoughts. “I better get going.”

“Sure.” Katya doesn’t point out that since time isn’t real, it doesn’t matter if Trixie leaves now or later. She watches Trixie straighten out her powder-blue sheath dress, walk into the hallway and then out the front door. From the office window, Katya watches her walk down the steps and along the path to the gate. As she moves through it, Trixie disappears. 

“This is all so fucking weird,” Katya mutters to herself, and then goes to find that coffee Trixie mentioned. 

Before Katya got up, Trixie must have gone around the room and labeled everything with post-its. On the espresso machine there’s one with an arrow pointing to the start button, a cup already waiting for her. Katya pushes it with a smile and watches how the cup fills up with fragrant, fresh coffee.

A post-it on the oven door notifies her of the pancakes waiting for her that she can heat up if she wants. One on the fridge points out the orange juice and invites her to take whatever she wants. 

It’s more food than Katya ever had in her apartment. Regardless of all of Trixie’s effort, Katya was never really into food, so she just picks up her coffee and takes it into the office. She’ll clean up before Trixie gets back; Katya doesn’t want to appear ungrateful.

She loses herself in the next book more than she expected. Since Katya doesn't know what she's looking for she can't just skim the names. She makes sure to take them all in, along with the dates and their cause of death. It becomes strangely meditative, a silent chant of lives lived, some fully, some cut short.

By the time Trixie comes home, Katya hasn't moved at all. She's about to finish the third book of the day with her empty coffee mug still sitting on the desk.

For an awkward moment Trixie stands in the open door to the office, neither of them knowing what to say. 

"How was your day?" Katya finally breaks the silence, and Trixie frowns.

"It was fine. Nothing unusual." 

Katya nods in acknowledgement, and then they're quiet again.

"Did you find anything?" Trixie asks, after searching for something to say with obvious frustration.

"No, not yet."

"Right." 

With an uncomfortable little half-smile Trixie turns and walks up the stairs, disappearing into her bedroom by the sound of it.

Katya remembers she did not tidy up breakfast this morning and quickly sneaks into the kitchen only to find it spotless with no trace of Trixie's efforts. Apparently the house is looking out for her. 

She decides to make dinner, both as an apology for hanging around Trixie's place and so that she won't feel quite so useless. She was never much of a cook, but she can at least whip up some grilled cheeses. 

Trixie walks in on her just as she's buttering the first piece of bread, and she freezes in the door.

"What are you doing?" She sounds like she caught Katya in the middle of beheading a chicken, with shock and something close to disgust.

"Making dinner. It's not gonna be as nice as what you made, but I wanna, you know, contribute," Katya explains with a flourish of her hand, waving the butter knife through the air.

"That's really not necessary. I like cooking." 

There's an implied  _ I don't like you messing with my things _ , but Katya is too far in to abandon her project. 

"No, no, I want to help! You can go and do whatever you do to relax, and I'll let you know when dinner is ready," she offers with a bright smile. Trixie stares at her blankly.

"Relax," she states somewhat incredulously.

"Yeah! What do you normally do to unwind?" Katya asks, trying to prompt her to leave and go do that instead of fixing Katya with this unsettling stare.

Trixie raises one eyebrow. "I cook."

“Oh.” Katya is doing this all wrong. “Uhm. Why don’t you grab a book in the living room, and I’ll come get you when everything is done? I won’t be long.”

Trixie sighs deeply, but turns and walks out. She leaves the doors open, and Katya feels like a child, not yet trusted alone with the stove. 

She doesn’t burn anything, which never happens. The house really must be working hard to protect her from Trixie’s moroseness. With only a few attempts, Katya finds plates and silverware. She fills a pitcher with cold water and even slices up a lemon to drop into it. She rifles through all the drawers until she finds a single candle and matches, and when she turns around to put them down on the table, there’s already a candlestick waiting for her. Katya whispers a  _ thank you _ into the room, feeling silly but not wanting to be rude. She even finds some blue gingham placemats that she’s sure weren’t lying next to the dish towels when she went to grab one earlier.

It’s a ridiculous amount of effort for a grilled cheese dinner, but she wants Trixie to know that she’s trying. This is the only thing she can do right now. Katya arranges and rearranges all the things she’s gathered with very little difference to the result, and finally lets it be. All that’s left to do is fetch Trixie. 

When Katya steps into the living room, Trixie isn’t sitting down with a book like Katya suggested -- of course not -- instead she’s sitting on the piano bench, the lid open and sheet music on the stand. Trixie’s hands are folded in her lap. She looks proper and small.

“You know how to play?” Katya asks quietly, and Trixie jumps a little. She must have not heard Katya come in.

“I think so,” she states with a frown, and then softens it into a quiet  _ maybe _ . Katya didn’t think she would, but Trixie raises both hands to the keys, and strains forward, her eyes focused on the sheet music. She begins to play, and Katya can feel her face pulling itself into a grimace. She’s not an expert, but she doubts it’s supposed to sound like that.

Trixie’s hands are hovering over the keys, her eyes wide as if she can’t quite believe the noise her fingers just produced.

“So… maybe not,” Katya answers her earlier question before she can stop herself.

Trixie’s head whips around to her, her mouth opening in obvious offence. And then Trixie laughs. It’s a hoarse shriek that makes Katya want to flee the room and at the same time rush in to grab Trixie. She hasn’t heard Trixie laugh before, and it sounds like her throat isn’t used to the motion. She follows it up with a breathy little giggle, and Katya feels her face split into a grin.

“C’mon, dinner’s ready,” she announces with an amount of pride the food she’s made doesn’t warrant, and Trixie springs up to follow her. She’s silent when she takes in the set table. Trixie lets Katya pour water for her, and cuts into her grilled cheese. 

“This is good,” she concludes once she’s swallowed down her bite, and Katya relaxes, sinking against the back of her chair. She hadn’t even realized how tense she was. Then Trixie adds, “Please don’t ever do that again.”

Katya shrieks, smacking her hands on her thighs. 

“No! Please, I--” Trixie’s mouth opens and closes, her face full of agitation. “I really appreciate what you wanted to do--”

“But I failed, gotcha,” Katya interrupts. She's leaning one elbow on the table and resting her chin on her hand, grinning at Trixie.

“No, you didn’t, I just…” She sighs, and Katya makes an effort to look less gleeful. “This is what I do. It’s what I’ve _ always _ done. I come home and cook. I  _ need _ this, for me.” Trixie stares at her pleadingly from across the table.

“I’m sorry.” Katya pulls her elbow off the table, feeling a lot more somber. “I didn’t realize this was so important to you.”

“Neither did I until I didn’t have it,” Trixie admits quietly. “ _ I’m _ sorry, I truly am grateful to you for doing this. I realize I must be difficult to live with.”

Katya waves her concern away. 

“I have been reliably informed by every roommate I’ve ever had that I’m a gross nightmare, so I think we’re even.”

It gets a small laugh out of Trixie. They finish dinner in peaceful silence. Katya is sort of relieved she won’t have to do this again, but more importantly, she’s learned something about Trixie.

Trixie likes her routines. She likes being in control. She likes knowing what will happen. That’s something Katya can work with. 

After the table is cleared, they move to the living room. Trixie sits on the couch with her legs pulled up, so Katya picks one of the armchairs. There’s no TV, not even a radio, nothing that would connect them to an outside world that doesn’t exist. They could both grab a book, but they’re not comfortable enough with each other to simply exist together in the same room.

Trixie is the one to break the silence.

“So, what do  _ you _ do to unwind?”

Katya shrugs. Her first instinct is usually to call a friend and see what they’re up to. Her next idea would be watching a movie. 

“I read, at least I tried to, but I hardly had the patience for it. Maybe that’s different now. I draw,” she finishes, and it feels like a lie. She did the occasional sketch; her days of painting are long behind her. God, she really has gotten boring over the last couple of years. Or maybe she’d just gotten tired in her routine of work, going home to an empty apartment, and then stretching out the time until she had to go to sleep by scrolling through twitter, not even enjoying herself.

The only responsibility Katya has now is going through Trixie’s records and finding a way to fix what happened to her. She’s been stripped of all distractions. Maybe this is the perfect time to get back into reading and drawing. 

When she goes to bed that night, she finds a sketchpad on her bedside table. It puts a smile on her face, and when she goes to put it in the drawer she finds it’s not empty. In it sits a neat little stack of the post-its Trixie left for Katya in the kitchen.

*

It takes some navigating, but they quickly develop their own routine. Trixie spends the day out playing reaper man (she does  _ not _ appreciate being called that) and Katya stays home and goes through the books in search of anything that might tip them off to what went wrong with her.

Keeping track of the days she’s spent here is impossible, since they’re not real days. There’s light coming from nowhere, and at some point it simply stops, leaving them with a moonless, starless night. There is no sunset. Katya had sat in front of the window, waiting for the light to change, looking down for just a moment, thinking how weird it was that her nails haven’t grown at all, and when she looked back up, she was greeted by thick blackness. 

The edge of the property where they’re surrounded by nothingness has not gotten any less nauseating, but there’s a bench by the fishpond that faces the house, and Katya likes to take the books out there. She’s pretty sure it was October when she died, but here it’s always a pleasantly warm late spring day. The only thing that makes it spring are the numerous flowers Katya has learned Trixie tends to herself. Sometimes she forgets for a few days. It’s alright; they’re very forgiving flowers. 

Every night after the dinner Trixie cooks for them, she settles down at the piano to practice. She’s a fast learner but not a natural, and it fills Katya with joy to watch her struggle with runs and unusual rhythms. Not because she wants Trixie to do bad or because her attempts are particularly nice to listen to, but because it makes Katya feel like they’re on equal footing.

She’s started filling her sketchpad with a variety of drawings; things she finds around the house, the view from her bedroom window, and portraits. She makes an effort to draw every person that was important to her in life. She begins with her parents. They’re not very good drawings, but she thinks she captured their essence, which she decides is more important than being photo-realistic. 

She starts a portrait of her sister, but finds it hard to recall the details of her face. They have the same nose; Katya knows that because people have remarked upon it all their lives. The rest is a bit hazy. When it gets too frustrating, Katya turns to a face she has the reference for right there with her.

The only time she really gets to look at Trixie is when she’s practicing the piano. She’s so focused on what she’s doing that she doesn’t notice Katya learning the slope of her nose and the angle of her cheekbones. All of Katya’s sketches of her come out looking slightly mad because Trixie is concentrating so hard. Katya thinks it gives them the right kind of character.

It’s not that Trixie is curmudgeonly a lot of the time. Very often she’s also perfectly pleasant, fun even. She’s just not used to hiding her emotions for the sake of anyone else. Which makes sense considering that until Katya, there  _ wasn’t _ anyone else. 

Trixie will lose her cool every time Katya makes any reference to the traditional figure of Death. She’s never mad for long, and quite often embarrassed afterwards. That is where the fun lies for Katya. 

One night, she jokes that Trixie could go for a pink cloak if she doesn’t want to compromise her aesthetic. The universe might even provide her with a plastic light-up scythe.

"You could be Barbie's Dream Death," Katya remarks with fake thoughtfulness, and Trixie makes a show of rolling her eyes, dropping the lid over the keys of the piano, and storming off.

"I'm going to bed," she still huffs before slamming the door shut, and Katya snickers.

"Nightie night," she cheerfully calls after Trixie.

Katya has forgotten about it the next morning and is in no way prepared for Trixie to push open the door to her bedroom while Katya is only in her sleep shorts and bra, deciding what to wear for the day. Trixie doesn't notice it; she's holding a pink cloak on a hanger out to Katya, blocking her own face with it.

"You did this!" 

“I didn't do anything. Maybe the universe has a sense of humor." Katya doesn't bother hiding her grin.

"Clearly. It sent me you," Trixie mutters, and she finally lowers the cloak and looks at Katya. "Oh! You're…" Trixie's eyes briefly roam over Katya's only partially clothed form before firmly settling on the floor in front of her own feet.

"I'm in my room, getting changed, yes."

Without saying anything else, Trixie turns around and leaves as quickly as she appeared.

When Katya comes downstairs -- with all her bits covered -- Trixie is still in the kitchen, buttering her toast. There's a mug waiting for Katya underneath the espresso maker, as there is every morning, and Katya presses the button. She leans against the counter as she waits for her coffee to finish pouring.

"Why are you like this?" Trixie continues their conversation as if nothing happened.

"Like what?" Katya innocently raises her brows.

"Why do you antagonize me on purpose?" Trixie clarifies, and Katya grabs her mug and sits down opposite her.

"Maybe I was sent to be your nemesis. Can't rule it out until we've tried it." Katya hides her smile in her coffee and takes the first, cautious sip so she doesn’t burn her mouth. Trixie just looks at her darkly from across the kitchen table.

"I think it's good for you," Katya admits as she sets the cup down on the coaster that’s waiting for her. She’s not sure if the house put it there or if Trixie did.

"Is it, now?" Trixie is still holding her butter knife in a way that could be threatening.

"Yeah! I know you have like, the most important job in the universe or whatever, but it's not healthy to take yourself so seriously."

Trixie just frowns at her. Katya sighs and takes another sip.

"It's not who you are."

Trixie scoffs. "Of course it is. It's what I'm here to do."

"Sure, but I was the manager at a costume shop, that doesn't mean that was my identity."

Trixie stands abruptly, taking her plate to the sink. She doesn't put it in the dishwasher. She must be upset.

"That's different, you're a person with a life."

Katya cocks her head to the side. "So are you," she says calmly. "Or you wouldn't insist on making dinner every night, and watering your flowers, and learning that Chopin piece you've been working on." 

Trixie does what she always does when she doesn’t know what to say: she walks away. Katya finishes her coffee with no rush, and then puts her cup in the dishwasher along with Trixie’s plate and cutlery. She’s picked up the book she’s on -- Katya has made it all the way to Dixon -- and heads towards the back door to spend her day by the pond when Trixie appears at the top of the stairs.

“Katya.”

It’s enough to make her stop dead in her tracks. Trixie usually only refers to her as  _ you _ .

“Yeah?”

Trixie takes a few steps down towards Katya. “Do you want to come with me?”

“Come with you? To… guide people?” Katya asks haltingly.

“Yes.” Trixie comes all the way down the stairs and looks at her expectantly.

“Is this an attempt to convince me of how important you are?”

“No!” Trixie caws, her voice rattling through the hallway. “I just thought you might appreciate not being stuck at home all the time.”

“I do!” Katya quickly assures her. “I just didn’t think you’d voluntarily spend more time with me.”

Trixie regards her perpetually perfect cuticles. “I don’t mind spending time with you. I’d just prefer it if you could be less of a bitch to me.”

Katya’s jaw drops, and as she’s still sputtering incoherently, Trixie looks at her from underneath her lashes and breaks into a grin. Katya barks out a laugh and shoves Trixie’s shoulder, making her giggle.

“So, are you coming along?”

“Oh yeah, uh, sure.” Katya looks down at herself and the denim overalls she’s wearing. “Do I have time to change?”

Trixie raises both brows. “There is literally no limit to the time we have.”

“I know, I mean I don’t wanna let you wait-- I’ll just go change.”

It only takes Katya a few minutes to put an outfit together that she thinks is more appropriate for the situation. Downstairs, Trixie is going through the now familiar process of touching the hourglasses for the day, something Katya has come to understand is Trixie making sure she’s taking them with her. 

“You’re kidding,” she states dryly when Katya steps into the office.

“Why?” She looks down at the black dress she’s wearing. 

“Don’t you think that’s a little stereotypical?”

“It doesn’t even go down to the floor. It's not, like, a  _ cloak _ ,” Katya argues. “I just thought it’s more, you know, appropriate.” She rolls the soles of her feet in her Docs, rocking back and forth.

“We’re not going to a funeral,” Trixie points out with a half-smile, staring at Katya’s boots for a moment before she quickly finishes picking up all the hourglasses.

As soon as they’ve stepped out the garden gate, Katya can’t feel the ground underneath her anymore, and automatically she expects the sensation of falling. It doesn’t come. After a moment of adjusting, she hurries after Trixie, who is confidently walking nowhere, until a room starts to form around them. 

All the furniture seems to have been picked for practicality rather than style, except for an old-fashioned vanity. It's what keeps it from looking like a hospital room, and combined with the framed photos on it, Katya reasons they’re in a nursing home. She doesn't notice the old woman in the bed at first, until her breath starts to rattle. 

"Oh," she whispers.

Katya looks to Trixie, but she's focused on the hourglass in her hand. Sand is still falling. They're a bit early apparently. Without thinking, Katya tries to grab a chair and pull it close to the bed, but her fingers glide through the armrest. So instead, Katya stands by the side of the bed and reaches towards the woman's hand that's lying on top of the covers. She can't grasp it, of course, but she thinks it's the thought that counts, so she puts her hand over the woman's.

"What are you doing?" Trixie asks at her regular volume which is often too loud for the house, but feels even more inappropriate here.

Katya shushes her.

"What? Are you worried I'll wake her up?" Trixie rolls her eyes, but her face smoothes out when Katya glares at her. "She can't hear us, she's still alive."

"I'm offering comfort," Katya answers Trixie's original question. "Isn't that the point?"

Trixie just looks at her with a frown, and then Katya gets distracted by her hand suddenly not hovering in mid-air anymore. She can feel the woman's hand beneath hers, and when she looks down she's met by her confused face, blinking up at Katya.

"Val, is that you, honey?"

"M-hm," Katya hums and squeezes her hand.

"Oh, your father and I have barely gotten to see you since you moved. Did you bring the kids?" The woman brings up her other hand and pats Katya's with it.

"They're… at home. Sorry. I promise I'll come by more often."

The woman's eyes narrow, looking clearer. "Oh, how silly of me. You're not my Val, of course not."

Trixie steps forward. "We're here to guide you. Can you see a light?"

Realization spreads on the woman's face, and she grips Katya's hand with surprising force.

"Right, I suppose it's my time." Then she stares at a space somewhere near the foot of her bed. "I didn't think that was real."

"Well, it is," Trixie says smoothly.

The woman sits up, and Katya helps her out of bed.

"Thank you, dear." She stands up straight and sighs. "Fifty years of back pain, and now it's gone. A shame I don't get to enjoy it."

"You might, there where you're going," Katya suggests with a smile, and together they set off to where the light seems to be waiting. “Good luck,” she adds when the woman pulls her hand from Katya’s grip.

“Luck? Do I need that?”

“I have no idea,” Katya admits. They share one last smile, and then the old lady is gone.

Trixie is kind enough to not say anything when Katya tears up, and she gives her a moment to collect herself. 

“You don’t have to be, you know, this involved,” Trixie says when they’re walking away, Katya looking back to see the room fade.

“No, but I can.”

“You can, but they’re not all going to be pleasant.”

Katya scoffs. “They’re dying. They deserve some kindness.”

She gets Trixie’s point when, after another two elderly people passing away peacefully, they appear in a hospital room. The man in the bed is maybe in his late fifties, too young for Katya to not feel bad for him. That is until he exhales his last breath and assures them he’d be feeling much better if Trixie let him look at her tits. 

What’s more surprising than that is Trixie only raising her brows, saying “What a tempting offer, but I will have to decline.”

Katya doesn’t feel nearly as calm.

“Dude, you just died. Do you seriously think this is the time and place to do this?”

“Oh, come on, can’t blame me for trying.” He has the audacity to grin at her, and Katya has to slap his hand away from where it’s getting dangerously close to her ass.

“I can and I do, you pig.”

Next thing she knows, Trixie has moved in between them, and Katya isn’t sure who she’s trying to shield.

“Do you see a light?” Trixie asks in a flat voice. When he nods, she waves her arms in an obvious  _ get up! _ gesture. “Off you go. Come on.” He tries to argue, but she doesn’t stop shooing him towards where he keeps looking, where his light must be. Once he’s disappeared, Trixie sighs.

“It would be exhausting to meet every person at their level,” she tells Katya as they walk away, to wherever the next person is about to die.

“Right, but like, I’m still gonna be kind to nice people and tell assholes to fuck off.”

Trixie smiles. "That's very noble of you."

Katya can't tell if she's being sarcastic or not.

"No, it's just being human."

*

"Do you think there are others like you?" Katya asks one night, keeping one finger on the book in her lap to not lose her spot. She spends her days going with Trixie now, leaving only the evenings to go through the endless list of deaths.

Trixie frowns at her from where she's standing by the shelf that holds her sheet music, searching for a new piece to learn. 

"Others? Why?"

"Because everyone we help move on is in the US, and so is everyone in here." Katya taps her finger against the book. "Maybe this is just your jurisdiction."

"I--" Trixie blinks a few times. "I've never thought about that." She replaces the sheet music she's holding on the shelf and comes to sit down next to Katya on the couch. Her eyes rake over the table, getting stuck on the  _ Location _ column at the end.

"I don't know of anyone else like me."

Katya bumps her elbow into Trixie's side, making her look up.

"I get it, you're  _ so special _ ." 

Trixie shoves her roughly, but she grins as she says "Shut up!" Then she lets herself sink back into the couch.

"You're not going to find anything in there." She nods towards the book. "I hardly ever check them anyway. They're not  _ helpful _ , I just find it reassuring that they're there."

Katya's fingers stroke over the page. There are no indents where a pen might have pressed into the paper.

"How does it work, anyway?  _ You're _ not writing them." Katya knows Trixie's handwriting from the post-its she left her. It's not what's filling the pages in front of her.

Trixie shrugs. "I started writing them. I think. It was a long time ago. Then they kept on writing themselves." She rubs both hands across her face, looking tired all of a sudden. Katya feels it, too, as she does every time she tries to figure out what happened to her.

Then, Trixie takes her by surprise when she reaches out and touches one finger to Katya's sketchpad that's lying on the coffee table. 

"Can I see? I think that's fair, since you get to hear me butcher the work of every great composer who ever was."

Trixie's playing is steadily improving. She rarely lingers on anything once she's got it, so Katya doesn't often get to hear songs played from the first note to the last. She gets one chance, when Trixie has worked out all the runs and is certain she can play both hands at the same time. And even then Katya doesn't get to sit back and just listen. As soon as Trixie notices that Katya is paying attention to her playing, she will simply stop. She has to be sneaky when she draws Trixie.

"Uhhh, yeah, sure." Katya puts down the book, as she shuts it realizing she has no way of finding her place again. Whatever.

She's not going to show Trixie the portraits she did of her. She put those near the back of the pad so Trixie wouldn’t accidentally find them. Katya is sure Trixie will lose interest in her scribbled flowers and wine glasses quickly. But when Katya thumbs the pad open, those aren’t what Trixie is looking at. She’s smiling down at the portraits of Katya’s parents.

“You’ve got your father’s eyes.”

“Yeah, upstairs in a box.” Katya jerks her head towards the stairs.

Trixie snorts. “You’re rotten.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that  _ uncouth _ of me?  _ Me _ , the living  _ corpse _ ?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. You smell rotten,” Trixie adds with a grin and shining eyes, and Katya crashes their shoulders together, bursting into wheezing laughter. Trixie leans into her even more to turn the page.

“Who’s that?” 

Katya stares down at the face on the page. The woman has the same nose as her. Other than that, Katya has no idea who she is. 

“I… I don’t--” Then she remembers. “That’s my sister. Of course it’s Vlada.” Her voice has gotten louder, but now it shrinks to a whisper. “Trixie, why did I forget? How could I forget my  _ sister _ ?”

Trixie is silent for a moment, then she slowly says, “You’re not supposed to be here for this long. Nobody is.” She doesn’t meet Katya’s eyes anymore. “You’re losing yourself.”

The room seems to be shrinking in on Katya. The air is too stale, the fire that felt cozy a minute ago now stifling her. She snaps the pad in her lap shut and pushes it to the side, standing up stiffly. The insides of her chest are pulling together into one big knot, making it hard to breathe.

"Katya."

Trixie's voice barely reaches her. Katya puts her body in motion, into the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the backdoor.

The garden is pitch black. She's relying on muscle memory to make her feet carry her to the bench by the fish pond. The pond itself is a black hole in the darkness around her. There is no moonlight, no constellations Katya could find in the sky. She calms down slowly, feeling her chest untangle itself. It's not cooler out here than it is inside the house, but the illusion of night is enough to make her shiver for a moment.

Trixie's pale form appears on the back porch and winds its way towards Katya like a ghost. She sits down next to her on the bench but doesn’t say anything. Katya stares up at the endless, black nothing stretching out in every direction around them.

“I miss the moon,” she whispers. “Isn’t that weird?” She turns to face Trixie. “I don’t miss the sun; as long as it’s light out I’m good. But the nights are lonely without the moon.”

Trixie opens her mouth and closes it again. Then, to Katya’s astonishment, she reaches out and wraps her warm fingers around Katya’s hand where it’s resting on her thigh. She squeezes tightly for a moment, and Katya squeezes back.

Trixie's face crumbles, and she looks down into her lap.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to get stuck here with me." Her hand is still clutching Katya's, and Katya wraps her other around Trixie's as well.

"This isn't your fault, Trixie. And there are much worse places to be stuck at. Much worse company, too."

Trixie sniffles a little. "What if it  _ is _ my fault? What if I asked the universe for you without meaning to?"

For a moment Katya is stunned. She hadn't considered that even for a moment. She's only just beginning to believe that Trixie likes her.

"If you did, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be." Katya lets go of her hand and puts one arm around Trixie's back, and she comes to her haltingly, resting her head on Katya's shoulder after a moment of hesitation.

“But you’re not!” Trixie insists with her voice still watery. “You’re going to fade away, forget who you are. It’s not fair to you.”

“You’ll have to help me remember, then.”

Trixie wipes the back of her hand across her nose. “How do I do that?”

“I could tell you about my life?” Katya suggests with a small shrug that jostles Trixie, who looks up at Katya and nods.

So Katya talks. About her family, and growing up in the suburbs. About her disgusting apartment in Boston that had been a biohazard, but at least it was all hers. Trixie is delighted with the costume shop Katya worked at and the owner who clearly suffered from delusions of grandeur, calling it a boutique. The longer Katya talks, the easier it gets. Not just because her memory is getting jogged, but because Trixie keeps asking and humming and giggling, making Katya want to impress her. 

“Katya?” Trixie interrupts the tale of Katya talking no less than five customers into buying a lobster costume for a bet, and she only stopped because those were all they had in stock.

“Yeah?”

Trixie nods up towards the sky. When Katya follows her gaze, her jaw drops. The moon hangs above them, round, bright, and impossibly big. All around them stars twinkle, and unlike their garden the night sky has no end, spanning as far as Katya can see.

“You know,” Trixie starts gently, leaning her head on Katya’s shoulder again and smiling up at the moon, “I missed it too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Katya’s mouth opens and closes several times, and Trixie snorts, gently nudging her knee against Katya's calf. “Are you trying to tell me something or do you just want me to admire your fish impression?”_
> 
> _Katya's voice returns to her. “I found it.”_
> 
> _“Found what?”_
> 
> _“Another person where something went wrong.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello good evening! Sorry this is so late, but my brain needed a break. I hope you enjoy this final chapter. For such a relatively short fic I've grown very attached to these characters, and I'm so glad I'm not the only one who cares about them. Thank you [Stutter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stutter/pseuds/stutter) for betaing this one, thanks to the whole rhombus, you guys keep me sane. Thank you [mattepinkallshades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattepinkallshades/pseuds/mattepinkallshades), you're my favorite person.
> 
> The playlist for this fic can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2gbaiFz96q5WB3U2t3MAOQ?si=o2DSQSoGSxyZrJ0QK__ysg).

Now that Katya goes with Trixie during the day, her progress through the books has slowed down significantly. Trixie keeps telling her she won’t find anything, her previous frustration mellowed into acceptance. 

They have stuck with Katya taking time every day to tell Trixie about her life. Over breakfast, when they’re walking from one person’s death to the next, while Trixie cooks them dinner. Trixie asks questions too, getting more familiar with the cast of Katya’s life, her friends and family. Every now and then Katya still draws a blank on something she should know, but it usually comes back to her after a minute.

It’s fine. Katya isn’t in a hurry to move on. Whatever she’s supposed to do will become clear eventually. Until then, she’s keeping up appearances and passing the time by remembering those who, unlike her, managed to die correctly. Most nights she ends up on the sofa, flipping through half a book. Trixie joins her when she doesn't feel like practicing piano anymore, often with a novel and a glass of wine, pouring one for Katya as well if she wants it.

They both like to sit with their feet pulled up, and they have found a way to arrange their legs next to each other in the center of the couch without colliding much. It's peaceful and familiar, and Katya finds herself wondering if she's spent much longer here than she's aware. It seems unlikely how quickly she and Trixie have adjusted to living together. Not just making it work, but making it pleasant.

She's not going to go through much of her current book today. Katya feels heavy with comfort, the taste of her last sip of wine still lingering in her mouth. She just wants to get nestled in underneath her covers upstairs in her large, soft-but-not-too-soft bed and drift off.

The only sound in the room is the two of them turning the pages of their books at even intervals, and their soft breathing that serves no purpose other than comfort.

Katya turns to the next page, and her eye is immediately drawn to the middle of the page. The uniform table, neatly filled out in the same, even handwriting that Katya has looked at so much she could recreate it in her sleep, is interrupted by a different one. One line was written with a shaky hand, in a larger font, and with pronounced loops. Katya knows this handwriting, too. She has a drawer full of post-its adorned with it.

_ Mattel, Beatrice Margaret. 08/23/1936. 05/12/1968. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Tripped on stairs. _

Katya’s useless breath stops as she processes what she has in front of her.

“What?” Trixie asks from the other end of the couch, looking at her with curiosity. Katya’s mouth opens and closes several times, and Trixie snorts, gently nudging her knee against Katya's calf. “Are you trying to tell me something or do you just want me to admire your fish impression?”

Katya's voice returns to her. “I found it.”

“Found what?”

“Another person where something went wrong.”

She dismisses this with a frown.“I told you, it’s never happened before. I would remember.”

Katya turns the book around and holds it closer to Trixie.

“Not if it was you.”

With a blank face, Trixie puts her novel down, and takes the book from Katya. She's staring motionless at the page for a moment that stretches out in unreal time, and then she slowly shakes her head.

“I-- that can’t--”

“I think you didn’t get a light either. You got stuck here, just like me,” Katya offers quietly.

Trixie stands abruptly, letting the book drop to the ground. Her eyes are wide with panic and keep darting back and forth between Katya’s face and her own name on the page. Then she suddenly clutches her chest with both hands, her mouth opening wide and gulping for air.

She sinks to the floor gracelessly, next to where the book fell, and Katya scrambles to follow her down, her hands reaching for Trixie’s shoulders, holding her upright and trying to catch her eyes that are staring straight ahead into nothing.

“I  _ did _ get a light. I remember now,” she whispers, finally looking at Katya. “I refused to take it.”

*

_ As Trixie is still falling, she curses herself for leaving her shoes lying in front of the stairs again. Then everything stops. Surprisingly, nothing hurts when she pushes herself off the floor in the hallway. She woke up from a bad dream in the middle of the night, and she just wanted to get a glass of water from the kitchen. It’s the house she grew up in; she knows it like the back of her hand, and didn’t bother switching on the light. Now she wants to, to check herself for any scrapes or bruises that might already be forming. She misses the switch on the first try, and then again on the second. For the third she walks closer to the wall, and then watches as the tip of her finger moves right through the switch without making contact.  _

_ “What the hell,” she mutters and tries again, with no success.  _

_ Then the hallway does get brighter around her, but it's not the familiar warm light of the ceiling fixture. It's white and comes from behind her.  _

_ The light is emanating from a spot near the kitchen door, and it's about that size too. Trixie wants to step closer to examine it, but when she looks down, she sees herself. Or what's left of her.  _

_ Her eyes are wide open, her face frozen in panic. Her nightgown is pushed up to her hips, her legs sprawled out, and Trixie wants to reach out to cover herself up, save herself from the indignity. Then she notices the unnatural angle of her neck. _

_ She felt it before, but now it's irrefutable. Trixie is dead. She stumbled over her own damn shoes in the dark and broke her neck. She's going to be found like that. Embarrassment burns in her chest. Who’s going to find her? She used to live here with her mother, until she passed away last winter. Lung cancer. Trixie had always told her the smoking was bad for her. She hadn’t known how bad. _

_ Now, Trixie is alone. It's Friday night, and she has no plans all weekend. The first person to miss her will be her boss when she doesn’t show up for work on Monday morning. No friends or family to notice her absence.  _

_ The light is still there, sitting in her childhood home’s hallway; silently, expectantly.  _

_ It’s not right. It’s not right that she should leave quietly and alone, her passing unnoticed by the world. No. She won’t do it.  _

_ Trixie turns her back to the light, to what remains of her life, and tries to open the front door. Her hand goes right through the knob, so she squeezes her eyes shut and steps right through it. It works. She’s outside now, but she can still see the light through the wall that’s gone weirdly hazy. Trixie resolutely walks away from it. She can’t feel the gravel underneath her naked feet, nor the cold night air on her arms. There is no breeze in the air, no insects buzzing around her. _

_ She’s no longer part of the world, that much is obvious. She started out walking through familiar streets, but by the time Trixie has reached the next corner, she can barely see anything anymore. Everything is disappearing. She keeps walking anyway, until there is only a colorless void surrounding her. When Trixie turns to look back, all that’s there is the light, hovering in front of her. _

_ Trixie sits down with her back to it. She may not be able to run from it, but that doesn’t mean she has to give in.  _

_ With nothing around her, it’s impossible to tell how much time passes. Not that it matters anymore.  _

_ “It’s not fair,” Trixie finally says out loud into the empty space when she can feel tears rising in her throat. “It’s not right that I’m-- that  _ everyone _ is supposed to go by themselves. Somebody should be here.” She swallows down the thick lump in her throat and waits. Nothing happens. Of course not. She’s just talking to herself. _

_ Then, out of the corners of her eye she sees the light’s glow disappear. Where it used to hover an hourglass sits on the ground. Trixie turns around all the way without getting up and crawls up to it. The glass makes a satisfying  _ clink _ when her nails tap against it as she picks it up. It’s as real as she is.  _

_ The top half is almost empty, the sand slowly and evenly falling into the lower half. Experimentally, Trixie turns it upside down. Now the sand is rising from the bottom into the upper half, and Trixie makes a sound close to delight. When she turns it again, she notices a name engraved in the wooden frame. As she’s trying to figure out who James Williams is, a room forms around her.  _

_ Trixie scrambles up, off the plush carpet, and is faced with an old man in what must be his bed. He’s sleeping soundly, unaware of her presence. The other side of the bed is empty, and Trixie spots a framed photograph on the nightstand. It’s the same man, who she assumes is James, clearly a few years younger, and a woman who was probably his wife. _

_ Trixie can feel it. One moment she’s alone and the next there’s a presence with her. She checks the hourglass she’s still holding. The upper half is completely empty now. _

_ “For a moment I thought you were her,” comes a frail voice from behind her, and Trixie whips around. _

_ James is sitting up in his bed, despite his body still lying down. _

_ “This is not a terrible way to go,” he muses then, looking back at his face. “Are you here to bring me to her?” he addresses Trixie again. _

_ “Her?” _

_ “My Esther. You took her three years ago,” he explains gently with no resentment. _

_ “Oh. No, that wasn’t me. I’m--” Trixie can’t help but laugh for a moment. “I’m new.” _

_ He smiles, and stands up. “Yes, I thought you don’t quite look like the fella I was expecting.” He reaches one arm out to her. “Now help an old man get to where he needs to go, young lady.”  _

_ Trixie loops her arm around his, but once they start walking, he remarks that nothing hurts anymore. He's confidently leading the way, and when Trixie asks where they're going he stops and looks at her with confusion. _

_ "Towards the light, of course. Don't you see it?" _

_ The room around them is dark. Trixie shakes her head. _

_ "It's not for me," she says quietly, as if the realization will make her light come back, and James nods. _

_ They take a few more steps, and then he lets go of Trixie's arm. _

_ "Alright, I suppose this is it. Thank you for helping me." _

_ "Please, I did barely anything," Trixie mutters. This is what she said she'd do, but she hadn't been prepared for it. _

_ "I wasn't alone. That's all you needed to do." James smiles at her, takes one more step, and then he's gone. _

*

Trixie had looked into her lap the whole time she told Katya about her death. A few times in between, her brows had knitted together and her words had come out haltingly, trying to cling to details that didn't want to be remembered.

When she's done and finally looks up, Katya is crying. She doesn't know when she started. She only realizes she's in tears when Trixie asks her why. To dry her cheeks she pulls the collar of her shirt up over her face and wipes it.

"You were alone for so long, honey." Her voice is thin in her own ears.

She pushes up on her knees so she can scoot closer and wrap her arms around Trixie. For a moment she freezes, then she melts into the embrace with her face pressed into Katya's chest. After a while, Trixie slings her arms around her waist, gripping so tightly that her fingers dig into Katya's back.

Without meaning to, Katya starts gently rocking them as Trixie's tears soak her shirt. If she had corporeal legs, they would be numb from kneeling on the floor for so long.

"You're such a good person," she murmurs into Trixie's hair. In response she laughs, short and hysterical, and raises her head. Her skin is soft and even as always, as if the tears aren't still rolling down her round cheeks.

"No, I'm not. I just refused to die. I was just… a person who was scared, like everyone else."

Katya shakes her head. "If you were like everyone else, this wouldn't be your place and your job. No, you used your fear and made sure others don't have to experience it. You're a good and kind person," she repeats with both hands on Trixie's shoulders.

Trixie just stares at her with watery eyes.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed," Katya finally mutters, and pushes herself up first before offering her hands to Trixie. She takes them, and Katya pulls with too much force, nearly making Trixie tumble into her, but steadying her at the last moment with an arm around her waist. 

Katya lets go of one of her hands as they leave the living room, the book still on the floor, but gently pulls Trixie up the stairs by the other hand. They walk past the door to Trixie's bedroom and into the bathroom, where Katya deposits Trixie on the lip of the bathtub.

In the cabinet behind the mirror she finds cleansing lotion. Trixie's makeup has not budged despite all the tears and being pressed into Katya's shirt. There's a washcloth hanging from a hook next to the sink, and Katya squeezes what she thinks is a good amount of the lotion onto it. 

Trixie tips her head back, looking up at Katya with big eyes for a moment before closing them. With her left hand, Katya gently holds Trixie's face, swiping the washcloth over her skin with the other. The makeup comes off easily, leaving thick black stripes along Trixie's temples where Katya has dragged her eyeliner. She rinses the cloth with warm water, and after the second go Trixie's skin is clean and pink.

"All done," Katya murmurs into the quiet of the bathroom, and Trixie's lashes flutter open. She stays quiet, and watches as Katya rinses out the washcloth again before hanging it up to dry. Katya reaches her hand out again, grasping Trixie's, but she stays sitting down.

"Moisturizer." Her voice is small and gentle.

"Of course, honey." Katya opens the cabinet again, finding the jar of moisturizer that she thinks never gets any emptier. There are two: one for the daytime, and one for nights that she picks up now. Katya smiles a little. She hasn't done any skincare this entire time. Of course Trixie has a routine. Katya unscrews the lid, and the light, fresh scent is familiar. It's more concentrated, but this is what Trixie smells like when they have breakfast together, before she’s put on makeup and perfume.

Trixie watches her, and gives a satisfied little nod at Katya picking the right jar before closing her eyes again, letting Katya dot the cream on her cheeks, forehead, chin, and on her nose.

Katya's hands are remarkably steady as they start rubbing the moisturizer in with gentle circles. One small dollop is clinging to Trixie's earlobe, and Katya massages that in, too.

Trixie's shiny face is looking up at her with serenity, and Katya resists the urge to cradle it in both hands. Instead, she picks up Trixie's hands that are resting on her thighs, her palms slightly cooler than Katya's. Trixie gets up right away this time, and then waits for Katya to make the next step.

Katya hesitates for a moment before she leads them into Trixie's bedroom. She hasn't been in here before; there has never been a reason to be, and now she's not sure if she's allowed. But Trixie doesn't say anything, so Katya pushes the door open.

The light coming in through the open door is enough for her to find the bed and sit Trixie down at the edge before Katya finds the switch for the bedside lamp. They're bathed in soft, golden light. She squeezes Trixie’s hand twice before letting go to find her pajamas. She quickly scans the room for what she needs to help Trixie get settled. She notices everything is set up for maximum comfort. The layout is identical to Katya’s, but in here, soft pink throw pillows litter the loveseat. A crocheted blanket covers the foot of the bed, and a pair of slippers waits for Trixie on the rug. 

Katya hazards a guess and pulls open the same drawer that in her room holds a variety of shorts and tank tops. She’s greeted with lots of silky and lacy things. She picks up the first thing on top without really looking at it, but it’s soft in her hands. She shakes it out to make sure she hasn’t just got a top and confirms with satisfaction that it’s a nightgown.

“Uh, do you wanna…” Katya holds it out to Trixie, who still looks at her with a far away expression, but then raises both arms over her head like a child. “Alright,” Katya murmurs and sets the nightgown down on the bed. She unbuttons the top buttons of Trixie’s cardigan, then grabs the hem, and pulls it over her head. She repeats the process with the blouse she has on underneath, leaving Trixie in her bra, her arms sinking down slowly. 

“Can you stand for a moment so I can take off your skirt?” Katya asks Trixie with one hand on her arm. She silently stands up, and Katya pulls down the zipper at the back, the skirt nearly falling off Trixie’s hips. Katya is sure she had on tights at some point today, but she must have taken them off for comfort earlier. 

“Raise your arms for me again, honey?”

Trixie does as she’s told, and Katya slips the nightgown over her head. She can see now how pretty it is. The ivory silk is trimmed with lace around the neckline and where it ends just above Trixie’s knees. It fits Trixie so well, but right now she still looks like a child trying on her mother’s clothes. 

Katya pulls the duvet back for her, and Trixie climbs in without Katya having to say anything. She scoots into the middle of the mattress, and Katya covers her up.

“Do you have everything you need?” she asks quietly, leaning down so she’s nearly eye-level with Trixie. Slowly but surely, Trixie’s fingers close around Katya’s wrist.

“Stay?”

Katya is instantly flooded with relief. She wouldn’t have been able to rest all night if she had to leave Trixie by herself. So she simply nods. Her pants join Trixie’s neatly folded clothes on the loveseat. Trixie moves over to make space for Katya and lifts the covers. Katya pulls it up to her chin once she’s in bed even though she’s still wearing her shirt and Trixie is under the duvet with her. They both lie still in the quiet of the bedroom. Then Katya remembers she needs to turn off the light, and she briefly sneaks one arm out, pulling it back as soon as it’s dark around them. 

Trixie finally breaks the tense silence. “Katya?” 

“Yeah?”

“I really didn’t remember, I promise.”

She sounds on the verge of tears again, and Katya turns onto her side, searching for Trixie’s eyes in the dark, only finding the faint glow of her round face.

“I know that, honey. I know how it is.”

Trixie sniffs loudly. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“I know,” Katya repeats gently, her hand in between them sneaking over to the other side, fumbling for Trixie’s. When she finds it, Trixie intertwines their fingers and shifts closer. She hides her face in Katya’s shoulder, and Katya brings one arm around her.

“You keep calling me honey.” Trixie’s already quiet voice is muffled.

Katya’s unavailing heart starts stirring in her chest. “Should I stop?”

“No.”

Katya pulls her closer, and without thinking, she presses her lips to Trixie’s forehead. Neither of them says anything else, and Katya drifts off as soon as she’s ready for sleep.

*

Katya awakes with the perfect clarity that she’s gotten used to, but for the first time she’s not alone. Trixie lies next to her, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. The sheet is pulled up over her chest, and she has both hands resting on her stomach, one on top of the other. 

“I can’t believe I forgot.” She turns to face Katya. “It’s all coming back to me now.  _ I _ wrote that entry about my death, because I was starting to forget.”

Katya wants to gather Trixie to her chest again, but in the daylight she doesn’t dare reach out with both arms anymore. She bumps the knuckle of her index finger against Trixie’s shoulder instead.

“You didn’t have anyone to help you remember.”

Trixie looks at her silently for a long time. Then she sighs.

“I better get up.” 

“Why?” Katya rolls onto her side, her face resting on her arm. It puts her closer to Trixie.

“I have work to do.” Trixie makes no attempt to get up.

“I think that all you should do today is stay in bed and eat ice cream,” Katya suggests in a tone she hopes sounds like an order. She’s not delusional enough that she thinks she could order Trixie around. But maybe it’s what she wants, and she needs somebody else to give her permission.

“I’ve never stayed in bed all day. Not here and not when I was alive.” Trixie blinks at her slowly, her eyes huge and dark, and Katya wants to cup her round face in both hands.

She clears her throat. “You have a lot to catch up on, then.”

Trixie rolls onto her side too, putting them almost nose to nose.

“What about the souls?”

“You said it yourself; they die and you’re there. Time doesn’t matter,” Katya reminds her, and Trixie hums faux-pensively. “If it would make you feel better, I could go and do it alone today.”

“God, no!” Trixie snorts. “That would make me feel  _ worse _ .”

“Shut up!” Katya shrieks, her mouth splitting into a grin, and Trixie caws a laugh. Her face quickly settles into a gentle smile that crinkles the soft skin around her eyes.

“I don’t want you to go.”

In Katya’s chest, her heart wakes up, starting a steady beat that drums against her ribcage. It startles her, and she gulps in air, making Trixie furrow her brows in a silent question. Katya doesn’t reply, she just puts her hand on her chest. She gasps again when Trixie puts hers on top of it. Her smile gets wider.

“What’s got you so excited, hm?”

Katya can feel her face grow hot as she struggles to find any words. She didn’t blush much when she was alive, but now she’s shy. Trixie doesn’t wait for an answer. She plucks Katya’s hand off her chest and puts it to her own. Katya can feel the lace of her nightgown on her skin, and underneath a heartbeat.

“It remembered, too.” 

Trixie leans in, her smiling mouth coming closer, and Katya doesn’t catch up to what she’s doing until Trixie is kissing her. She holds perfectly still as Trixie's lips press gently against hers. Trixie lingers only for a moment, and then pulls back. She's calmly regarding Katya with those large, dark eyes, and Katya feels dizzy.

She knows herself. She knew she liked Trixie since their first dinner together. She knew she was  _ into  _ her even before then. But this whole time, even with them becoming more tactile, she hadn't for a moment considered that Trixie felt the same way. Not in the human way, even though it was Katya who had insisted this whole time that Trixie wasn't that different from her. She hadn’t known how right she was. 

"That bad, huh?" Trixie asks with a lopsided smile, and Katya realizes she hasn't said anything this whole time.

"No!" She subjects over the beat of her heart that's thundering in her ears. "Not at all, I was just surprised." Katya wonders if her body is so busy keeping her heart working that it forgot about her brain. She can’t form a single coherent thought. Instead of trying to come up with something to say, Katya leans in again, and this time she actually feels Trixie’s mouth against hers.

It’s not that Katya doesn’t enjoy kissing; she  _ does _ , but for her it was usually a step on the way to something more. This isn’t that. Trixie is warm against her, with her heartbeat underneath Katya’s fingertips. Her skin still smells like the cream Katya gently rubbed in last night, and she longs to touch Trixie’s face again. She puts the hand Trixie isn’t holding to her chest on Trixie’s cheek, tracing the jawline with her thumb. Trixie hums and then swipes her tongue over Katya’s lips, not insistently but present. Katya lets her in and huffs a quiet sigh.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, with no need to stop for catching their breaths. Katya still feels more alive than she has in years. They’re pressed closely together. Katya creates a map of Trixie’s body from the way it feels against hers, learning all the ways her soft curves wrap around Katya.

She finally pulls back when Trixie’s hand creeps underneath her shirt, her nails raising goosebumps all over Katya’s belly and making her hips twitch. She isn’t trying to move things along, so she puts some distance between them. It doesn’t do much; not when they’re lying in the same bed, and Trixie is looking at her with heavy lids and a smile playing around her lips. 

Katya sits up and brightly announces “Coffee!”

Trixie blinks a few times. “What?”

“If you’re going to spend the day in bed, you’ll need to have breakfast brought to you.”

Trixie hums and rolls over on her back. “On one condition.”

Katya swings her legs out of bed. She had expected Trixie to argue. “What?”

“You spend the day with me.” Trixie is still smiling, her fingers stroking over the sheet where Katya was lying a moment ago. It makes her want to get underneath the covers again and forget about breakfast. But Katya doesn’t want to rush this, rush  _ them _ . 

She realizes she’s not wearing pants when she’s standing, but grabbing her jeans and putting them on under Trixie’s watchful eye seems significantly more awkward than walking around in underwear. Katya does her best to hurry out of the room without looking like she’s fleeing.

Downstairs the desk full of hourglasses is visible through the open office door, and Katya closes it quickly before making her way into the kitchen. It’s the first time that she’s up before Trixie, and even though Katya usually only has coffee she misses the smell of breakfast food. She doesn’t trust herself to whip up pancakes or waffles without a recipe, so scrambled eggs will have to do. She finds bacon in the fridge and throws that in a pan before she starts the eggs.

The toast has just popped out of the toaster and Katya is plating everything when she hears one key of the piano being pushed down, and then again and again. When she goes to investigate, she finds Trixie in a fluffy dressing gown, one long finger extended over the piano.

Without looking up, she says, "I used to play as a child. I stopped in middle school.” She presses the key down once more, and the note sounds strangely hollow by itself. “I don’t remember why.”

Trixie looks sad now. Upstairs in her bedroom she had seemed content and even bright. Down here she’s surrounded by reminders of the existence she built for herself because she didn’t know any better. She drifts from the piano to the couch, where she bends down to pick up the book she dropped last night. The book with her name and date of death in it. 

Katya watches with bated breath, preparing to catch her again in case of more tears. But Trixie just looks down at the page for a moment before closing the book gently and setting it down on the coffee table, next to their half empty wine glasses from last night. She looks up with her mouth not smiling but her eyes soft, and she reaches one hand out towards Katya. She hurries to Trixie’s side and intertwines their fingers. With them standing up, Katya has to push up on her tiptoes to kiss Trixie. She does smile after Katya has pulled back. 

“Let’s go back to bed.” She squeezes Katya’s finger, and Katya doesn’t have the heart to tell her to go by herself while Katya gets their breakfast. 

They have to let go of each other for Katya to carry the tray with their plates up the stairs, and Trixie follows her with both their coffee cups. They build a cozy nest against the headboard with all the pillows in Trixie’s bedroom. Katya is sure she leaves a variety of crumbs on the sheets, but once they’ve finished all the food and set the tray with their dishes down on the floor, she can lie down comfortably with no trace of their breakfast disturbing her. 

Trixie slots herself to Katya’s side as if they’ve done that hundreds of times, her hand resting over Katya’s heart. It’s still beating, but it’s settled into a steady rhythm. They’re silent for a long time, and Katya dozes off for a bit until Trixie’s fingers poke not too gently at her cheek. 

“I’m awake,” Katya mutters, and as soon as she says it, she is.

“This is the house I grew up in,” Trixie tells her with wide eyes.

“What?”

“It’s my house! It was different before you came, and it’s furnished differently, but this is my childhood bedroom. It’s just nicer now,” Trixie explains at rapid speed. She’s looking around the room as if she’s seeing it properly for the first time. Then she gasps and looks back at Katya, while she extends an accusatory finger towards the door.

“I died on those stairs!”

Katya wraps her whole hand around Trixie’s index finger and pulls twice before unravelling her tight fist and slotting their palms together. 

“I don’t understand why it’s doing that,” Trixie carries on, sounding less distressed than sullen. “It could have chosen any house.”

“Maybe it’s depending on your memory,” Katya suggests gently, and Trixie’s face pulls into a disbelieving frown.

“Why would it do that?”

Katya shrugs the shoulder Trixie isn’t lying on. “I don’t know, but this place isn’t a magic lamp that gives you whatever you want. It uses references. Things we’ve said, things we’ve seen.”

“You sound like you’ve thought about that.” Trixie sounds surprised.

“Of course! Haven’t you?”

Now it’s Trixie who shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe in the beginning. Now it’s just how it is.” 

Katya’s chest tightens painfully at the thought of Trixie puttering around in the house by herself for all this time.

“God. Fifty years,” she mutters, and Trixie frowns in confusion for a moment before she catches up with Katya’s train of thought.

“Katya, all those books…” she starts softly, “I think it was longer than that.”

Trixie looks at her with warm eyes and a sad smile, as if Katya had been the one spending a whole lifetime alone. Katya doesn’t mean to, but she feels tears rising in her throat and quickly spilling over. Trixie tuts gently and sits up, taking Katya face in both hands, and her thumbs rub away the tears on her cheeks. 

“I’m alright,” she assures Katya. “More now than I’ve ever been, I think.” She bends down and gently touches their lips together for a moment. Katya slings her arms around her back and pulls her tight to her chest. Trixie makes a surprised little noise, and then flops down on top of Katya.

Katya’s sniffles are the only sound in the bedroom, and she takes a few deep breaths to calm herself. When she succeeds, Trixie strokes the hair off her forehead.

“I still don’t know if I wished for you, but I  _ need _ you.”

It sets Katya’s tears off again and makes her breathe a pathetic little laugh. “I’m not usually such a crybaby, I swear.”

Trixie snorts and kisses her again. “You’re very sweet.” 

Katya gets distracted from what she was upset about when Trixie’s hand finds its way onto her thigh, and then up to her hip and underneath her shirt again. When it reaches her ribs, she breaks their kiss and sneaks her own hand in between their bodies. She wraps her fingers around Trixie’s wrist and pulls her away gently.

Trixie sits up immediately.

“Is this not okay? Do you want me to stop? I’ll stop.” Her face is round and open, waiting for Katya to say something.

“I just--” Katya pulls Trixie’s hand up to her face and kisses the knuckles on each finger. “We have time. Literally all of it. I don’t want you to rush into anything you might not be ready for.”

Trixie blinks a few times. Then she throws her head back and shrieks.

“People had sex in the sixties, Katya!” With her free hand she grabs Katya’s shoulder and shakes her. Her head falls forward as she laughs, and then she looks at Katya from below her lashes with a grin. “Oh, I’m _ ready,  _ trust me.” 

Her tone makes Katya laugh too, and she can’t help but kiss Trixie.

“Yeah? Did you ask the house for a vibrator and it didn’t give you one?” 

Trixie shrieks again and Katya wheezes as Trixie lets herself drop onto the mattress as if the comment took her out. Every time they look at each other they start laughing again, and Katya feels lightheaded in a way that has nothing to do with oxygen. 

This time it’s her who pulls on the belt of Trixie’s robe and makes the knot come apart. She pushes it off Trixie’s shoulders and kisses them each, lingering on one side and not moving any further. Trixie pulls her arms out of the sleeves and then rolls her eyes when Katya makes no attempt to undress her further.

Katya wants to savor it. Trixie is the last person she will ever sleep with. She probably would be even if they weren’t the only two people in existence.

Her hands wander over Trixie’s body, over shiny fabric and soft skin, and Trixie lets her. Katya smooths out the thick strands of her blonde hair, laying it around her head like a halo. 

“Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean you have to arrange me.” Dimples appear in Trixie’s cheeks as she says it, and Katya kisses them. 

Warmth radiates from Katya's chest as she pulls the nightgown that she put Trixie in last night over her head. She hadn't paid much attention to her underwear then, but she does now. It's simply and cream-colored, ordinary other than for the fact that it's what Trixie chose to put on. She could have the most exquisite lingerie, just like her clothes are elegant and expertly made. But Trixie chose comfort. Trixie finally tires of waiting and sits up, pushing Katya down with a broad palm on her chest.

Trixie's hands are decisive but calm, and Katya feels both out of her depth and soothed as Trixie's supple body moves with hers. It all seems familiar but more vibrant, like every woman she has ever been with was the shadow of Trixie waiting for her. The only certainty is Death, and Katya is reborn by her touch. 

For the blink of an eye she has utter clarity. She sees what the universe has planned for her, and her destiny lies next to her in a bed made for them, on a plane of existence made for them. Or maybe it's not the universe, and she's just in love. It hardly seems to make a difference.

*

They get back to work the next day, but it’s not the same. In the mornings they step out of the house hand in hand. Trixie leaves most of the talking to Katya when they’re visiting people. Katya knows Trixie can do it, she has never been without compassion. But she tells Katya she prefers watching her do it.

They come home, Trixie makes an unnecessarily complicated dinner for them, and they retire to the living room where Trixie plays the piano and Katya sketches, the records of the dying staying on their shelves, now that there truly is no point to it anymore. When Trixie has enough, they head straight to bed and lie in the dark, limbs entangled, playing a never ending game of 20 questions. Katya holding on to her life, Trixie remembering hers. Some days they skip work altogether, because they can. One morning they awake with Trixie’s closet space doubled and all of Katya’s clothes already moved in. It saves them the trouble of pretending Katya’s bedroom still serves a purpose. 

It’s a small world they share, but they fill it with simple things that bring them joy, and each other. It’s the most at peace Katya remembers ever being.

The first thing Katya feels when she wakes up is how tightly Trixie’s arms are wound around her. She has buried her head in Katya’s neck, and Katya kisses her hair. It gets her what she would call a squeak if she was trying to antagonize Trixie, but it’s too early in the day for that. There’s a glow somewhere by the bed and it takes Katya a moment to realize that it’s not where the window is. She turns her head and her jaw drops.

A light. She’s got a light. 

It’s hovering not far from her, spreading its glow through the room. It’s neither warm nor cold, and something in Katya tells her to get up and go to it. Her first thought is Trixie. How brave, how strong she was to refuse it. How Katya can’t leave her behind.

She could just not tell Trixie about it. Simply pretend it’s not there until it isn't. She hasn’t asked Trixie how long it took for her light to disappear, she probably doesn’t know herself. It’s fine. Katya will wait it out and they can go on like they have. She’s so busy making her plans that she doesn’t notice Trixie raising her head.

“You can see it too.”

Katya turns to her slowly. “What do you mean,  _ too _ ?”

Trixie scrambles up on her knees, and Katya follows suit. 

“It was there when I woke up, and I thought if I just don’t pay attention to it, it will disappear again,” Trixie explains, looking over Katya’s shoulder where the light waits for her. For  _ them _ . 

“Were you just not going to say anything?” Trixie shakes her head, and Katya laughs, although there is no humor in it. “Me neither.” They both look at it, silently.

“What do we do?” Trixie finally asks.

Katya scoots closer on her knees and takes Trixie’s hands in hers.

“We don’t have to go. We can stay here.” Trixie starts shaking her head, and Katya can hear her own voice getting more frantic as she carries on. “I mean it! We’re happy here, aren’t we?” 

Trixie is still shaking her head. “I can’t ask this of you.”

“But you’re not! I’m offering.”

“Katya, it’s not right.” Trixie looks at her with her eyes swimming but nonetheless determined. “You were never supposed to get stuck here.  _ I  _ wasn’t supposed to get stuck here.”

Katya squeezes her hands. “I think I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”

With a frown Trixie looks down to their intertwined hands. “I’m not going to keep you here. You deserve to move on.” She looks surprisingly calm when she raises her head and meets Katya’s eyes. “And so do I.”

Katya surges forward and kisses Trixie softly but for a long time.

“Okay.” She nods, more a confirmation to herself than in response to Trixie. “Okay,” she repeats more quietly.

Trixie looks down at herself and laughs. “I died in my nightgown the first time, and I’m doing it again.”

Katya is in her pajamas too, and it feels inappropriate somehow, even though she knows it doesn’t matter. But not knowing she was about to die was easier. She didn’t have to prepare herself for it the last time. Katya looks around the room, and something small and scared in her stomach keeps screaming that she shouldn’t give all of this up. But she knows Trixie is right. They’re not supposed to be here. The universe has accommodated them, but it’s never been quite right. Eventually they would lose themselves. She doesn’t want to end up like that. With a deep breath Katya gets out of bed and then holds her hands out to Trixie.

She thinks she understands now.

“You said it wasn’t fair that nobody was there to guide you. I’m here now.”

Trixie sobs, but her eyes are dry. She lets Katya pull her up, and they stand facing each other, hands clutched tightly. It feels like they’re exchanging vows.

Trixie’s voice is even as she says, “I’m scared, Katya.”

Katya isn’t anymore. “It’ll be alright, I promise.”

Trixie nods, audibly inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth. She turns her head, and Katya follows her line of sight towards the light. It’s still drawing her in, but it’s easier to resist when she’s holding onto Trixie. She’s the one making her feet move to step closer to it.

Trixie stops in front of it. “What do you think is on the other side?” 

Katya squeezes her fingers twice so Trixie will look at her. She smiles. 

“I don’t know. We’ll find out together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts here in the comments or on tumblr where I'm [@connyhascontrol](https://connyhascontrol.tumblr.com/).


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